


look at me I'm a sea

by everybodyknowseverybodydies



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Drabble, Gen, I mean it's not AU so that's something, Michiru paints and Ami does not, accidentally backdated this so TAKE TWO, also talking happens, anyway these tags are getting out of hand so it's probably time to stop, being... you know... Michiru, but Michiru is NOT SUPER GOOD AT THE FRIENDING THING, i guess?, ish, kinda vague references to D-Point, references to Harumichi, the ampersand means it's a friendship in the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 01:19:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9213044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybodyknowseverybodydies/pseuds/everybodyknowseverybodydies
Summary: In which Michiru is enigmatic and Ami overthinks things - so really, business as usual.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title from "sea castle" by Purity Ring

The canvas was a whirlwind of gold and deep, deep blues. The edges looked as if they had really been cracked, though Ami knew they hadn't been, and in the center of it all, twisting and looking... well, sort of... making a face Ami had never seen her make but which she was sure Michiru had most definitely seen, she thought in an embarrassed rush, was Haruka.

"It isn't quite finished," came a smooth voice from behind her. Ami spun, nearly colliding with the painter herself. Michiru raised an eyebrow elegantly.

Flushing, Ami stammered, "I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry, I just wanted to—to see—"

"To see my work?"

"Er—yes?" But that wasn't really it.

"Or to see me paint?"

That was closer. Ami nodded weakly. Michiru gestured to a chair off to the side.

"That," she said, "is usually where Haruka sits, but she won't be in here today. Make yourself comfortable." She smiled, the expression distantly reserved. It reminded Ami more of the serene porcelain smile of antique dolls in delicate lace dresses than of a real person's smile. "Do you paint?"

"I—no," she said, looking down. "My father does. I've never really been able to do... anything satisfactory."

"Surely that isn't true." The brush was gliding over the canvas so fluidly and with such grace that Ami suddenly had the distinctly vivid memory of sitting in her father's studio, running the soft bristles of his brushes over her little fingers and her cheeks, eyes closed as the quiet strains of his radio floated overhead. "I hear you write poetry."

She jumped, jolted from the memory, and blinked. "Oh, it... well, not very _good_ poetry."

"Really." Michiru never looked up, the strands of Haruka's hair bright gold against the dark clouds behind her on the canvas. She was silent then, tracing the contours of her lover's face as gently as if Haruka really were there before her. Ami swallowed nervously when she found she couldn't look away.

They sat like that through the finish of the painting of Haruka, silent, Michiru absorbed in her art, Ami enraptured by the process. Michiru pulled out another canvas and set Haruka aside, flat on a desk to dry, and started anew. Two hours in, the rough underpainting complete and Michiru's thinner brush now fleshing out the details, Ami realized with a start that the figure kneeling in the ice was herself.

"I'm not him," Michiru said calmly, brush stroking down the smooth curve of Ami's spine. "Your father."

She wrapped her arms around herself, unnerved. "I... I know...?"

"You can't understand him by watching me." The brush slid across the canvas, and there were storm clouds on the horizon—a thunderstorm, in the tundra. Ami wet her lips uncertainly and eyed the image. "That _is_ why you came."

"No," she shook her head. "I mean, it—it wouldn't hurt anything, but that isn't why I came. No, I, um... I thought I could understand you better, if I saw."

"If you saw." There was something in the pale outstretched hand and nothing on her face. "What is it you would like to see?"

 _I don't know_. She watched the shadows on the snow form around her, under her knees, the hand bracing herself on the ground. The thing in her hand was still undefined as Michiru's brush dipped into a deeper blue and returned to the canvas. The blank expression on her face was unnerving. "Is this what you think of me?" The question was out before she'd realized she'd spoken aloud.

Michiru never wavered. "Is what what I think of you?"

"That I..." Ami trailed off, struggling to find the words. The longer she watched, the less she was sure it was wrong. Unfazed by her lack of a response, Michiru only continued on calmly. Whatever was in her hand was coming into focus with every brushstroke—but then Ami stiffened, recognizing the pair of tiny roses and the icy landscape at the same time. " _Why?_ "

"Why anything?" She reached for a thinner, more precise brush. "I think, if you would still like to stay, you ought to paint something yourself." Gesturing vaguely to a collection of blank canvases, Michiru leaned forward, concentrating intensely on a small detail Ami couldn't make out from where she was.

"Paint something—what am I supposed to paint?" She stood anyway, going to the canvases.

"What do you think?"

Ami turned, brow knit. "I... wouldn't have asked if I—"

"No," Michiru said. She straightened and turned finally, and she froze Ami with her inscrutable stare. "Not 'what do you think you should paint.' What do you _think?_ "

 _I think this afternoon has helped me understand almost nothing_ , she thought bitterly, but instead looked down at the smaller canvas in her hands and said with forced lightness, "I don't suppose there's a more specific prompt."

"This isn't a homework assignment." She didn't look up. She didn't want to see whatever Michiru thought had happened there. It wouldn't be right, anyway; she hadn't even touched the sharp ice, much less climbed it to see—to— "Would it be easier if I had asked you what you feel?"

"I don't—?"

"Because it's more than that." Michiru was standing in front of her suddenly, paintbrush behind her ear and a smear of rich blue paint on her cheekbone and eyes frighteningly intense. Ami took a step back without thinking, and Michiru put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. "There is no emotion in what I do."

Brow knit, Ami started cautiously, "Don't the critics attribute your success to the intense emotion in your art...?"

"The critics are not involved in my work process. I am." She held out a fresh brush, tilted her head. "I think," Michiru said quietly. "If I painted only with emotion, everything I painted would be... terribly dull. You want to understand—" Her hand dropped smoothly to her side again, and her expression was serene once more. "—take this, and paint what you think."

Ami sat down again, only half-knowing what she really meant and not liking the feeling, and took the brush.


End file.
